14 And a Quarter Floors Up
by bobbirose
Summary: Something goes wrong in a case and John and Sherlock find themselves trapped in a malfunctioning hotel elevator, which leads John to discover something about Sherlock he'd never known before.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Inspired by a prompt I saw on tumblr- "Sherlock and John get trapped in an elevator". Of course, this is perfect for a fluffy pre-slash to slash one shot but I figured yeaaaaa what the hell let's make some sort of multi-shot fic out of it. Also the implied Mystrade kind of happened on accident because I realized Mycroft wouldn't be the one calling Sherlock about this case...anyway. Yeah. Enjoy implied Mystrade.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything-not even the prompt-all I'll do is sell everything under my name. Seriously though all characters belong to BBC, Mofftiss and ACD himself. **

* * *

Chapter 1 - Contemplating Conversation  


_Brother, dear, I'm afraid today is not the day to be bored. -MH_

Sherlock glanced at his phone's screen briefly, pausing his unwrapping of his third nicotine patch to read the text from his brother. Rolling his eyes, he quickly typed out a response and tossed his phone onto John's chair in front of him.

_Prove yourself or I shall add a fourth. -SH_

Before he could divert his attention back to Patch No. 3, however, Sherlock heard the door to 221B open and close, and then the warm tenor of John's voice rose through the floor. The words were impossible to distinguish, but Sherlock breathed in the sound all the same, closing his eyes and reveling in it. It was one of the few chances he ever received to marvel at John Watson, and he'd be damned if he ever missed one.

Because what were his alternatives?

_"Hello, John, stand still for a moment. The sunlight from the window has caught your hair in such a way I want to remember forever."_

And then John would stand there, and blink at him, and open his mouth to say something, and then change his mind.

_"Sherlock," _he would eventually say, _"that's not something _friends _say to each other._"

And Sherlock would hate that.

So as soon as he heard John's key in the lock, he turned his focus back onto the nicotine patch. He heard John pause at the doorway behind him, and Sherlock decided a sidelong glance was an appropriate reaction.

"Got a case, then?" John asked, inclining his head towards Sherlock's exposed forearm.

"Of sorts," Sherlock muttered darkly in response, glaring towards the kitchen.

"Of sorts..." repeated John slowly, following his gaze- "Oh, _Christ_, Sherlock, what the _hell _did you do to the kitchen?!"

"I was looking for something."

"You've practically dismantled it!"

_"I was looking for something."_

John's resigned exhalation traveled impossibly far to rush over Sherlock, like some sort of wave of...well, resigned exhalations.

"What were you looking for?"

"Eggs."

_"Eggs?"_

"I'm assuming you're familiar with them."

Another exhalation, frustrated this time, was not half lost on Sherlock.

"Eggs are in the fridge, Sherlock."

Silence. Then:

"Must have deleted that."

"Deleted...fine. Save the knowledge again, then." John shuffled around to the front of his chair and plopped himself down in it, kneading his forehead with his hands.

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, and contemplated a conversation.

_"Rough day at the surgery, I presume?" _he would ask, already knowing the answer (chock full of prostate exams), but wanting John to tell Sherlock himself.

Would that be acceptable? Is that what _friends _do?

He didn't have a chance to think on it very long, however, for John quite suddenly jumped about a foot in the air, emitting a very uncharacteristically high yelp and dropping the newspaper he had picked up from the end table.

"John?!" Sherlock asked sharply, rushing over to see what caused the disturbance.

John dug around in the cushions roughly for a moment before gruffly producing a cell phone, which had invariably buzzed somewhere underneath John. The screen remained lit for a split second, but still long enough for Sherlock to see _Mycroft H. _had replied to his text.

_I am sending you and John somewhere. -MH_

_I have to take the case first. -SH_

_-Incoming Call-_

"What is it?"

"Every employee that has taken the stairs of Gibbon's Hotel in the past week have gone missing. They take the elevator; they are spared. A guest takes the stairs; they come out the end, right as rain. However, four members of hotel staff have gone completely missing, each one with an eyewitness account of them entering the stairwell."

"Alone?"

"Obviously."

Silence.

"Mycroft, why are you the one telling me this?"

"You are ignoring Lestrade."

"Why are you contacting Lestrade?"

Silence.

"Goldfish."

_-Disconnected-_

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear, smirking slightly before turning to John.

"Pack. We're going somewhere."

John looked up, unsurprised.

"Where?"

"Gibbon's Hotel." Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet as he enunciated the word, popping the b's with extra emphasis.

"For a case?"

"Obviously."

"Would it change anything if I said I had a date tonight?"

"Entirely up to you, John."

Silence.

"Give me half an hour."

Sherlock smiled, satisfied, and strode into his bedroom, sending a final text to Mycroft on the way in.

_I'll take the case. -SH_

Sherlock extended his arm rather joyfully, delighting in the sight of the adhesive being forced from his skin as he tore the patches off, contemplating conversation for the cab ride as he did so.

* * *

"What's the name?"

"Holmes."

Sherlock and John were standing in front of reception, where a pudgy girl named Lindsay with badly-dyed blonde hair was lazily checking them into their room. Sherlock looked slightly nervous; his blue eyes were darting around the lobby, as if he expected the Stairwell Kidnapper to drop from the ceiling and steal him away. _And_, thought John, _even if he were, Sherlock would be just as poised as ever, knowing exactly how to deal with whatever he can see-_and then John straightened up, because _oh. He can't trust what he sees with this one. Just like the Hound of Baskerville. _John was struck suddenly with an urge to take his friend's arm and hold tightly-

"Holmes...aha, here we are...Sherlock and John Holmes."

John's head snapped up.

"No," he said automatically, "we're not...like that, we're not married."

Sherlock sighed and bowed his head; whether at the mistake or John's reaction, John didn't know.

If John had been in a better mood, he would have laughed wearily and nudged Sherlock, joking about their public relationship, much to the embarrassment of the check-in lady.

_"Are we full-out married now? That's a new one."_

And Sherlock would smile at him back, one of the smiles that only John was allowed to see. One of the smiles only John could create.

_"They're going to have to start forging documents-of course, your signature is entirely too easy to replicate. Mine, on the other hand, is not so readily copied...or avaliable..."_

And it would strike John that he'd never actually seen Sherlock's signature. He'd seen his handwriting in notes in the kitchen -"be careful of open beakers" , "DO NOT MIX WITH WATER" , "Clean up mess? NOT WITH WATER"- and he'd seen the way his mind works in words through texts and blog entries. But he'd never seen Sherlock express himself in the most arbitrary way possible-a signature.

The hypothetical conversation coupled with the afterthought carried John all the way to their room, the door to which Sherlock graciously opened for them.

Double beds.

Relief flooded John at the sight; the kind of relief that comes when you dodge a major bullet; when you lose your phone at a bar and as a result don't end up drunkenly calling your ex at ungodly hours of the morning.

"Good of them to give us another room, eh?" John prompted lightly, tossing his light trunk onto the far right bed and unzipping it. It was quite drafty in the room and John needed a jumper. He selected a newer one, one that Sherlock didn't have as many clever comments to say against it. It was a burgundy, and the thickly-knit fibers warmed John immediately.

"Expected." Sherlock said absently, stretched out on the left bed and closing his eyes.

"Too tired for dinner?" John asked, tilting his head.

Sherlock exhaled, and his eyes open.

"Nope," he said placidly, lips popping the "p".

He followed John out of the room, mildly anxious.

_What do friends say to each other at dinner?"_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: none of the shit that's about to go down belongs to me in anyway**

***sings faintly* let's get down to business..**

Chapter 2: When Your Aluminum Crutch Takes the Hint Before You Do

"And would you like to see a dessert menu tonight, gentlemen?" asked their waiter warmly, seeming very genuinely interested in the answer. He was probably in his mid to late twenties, with a carefully trimmed and thin beard that came all the way around his jaw and dusted the top of his throat. He had nice brown eyes, not too big or too small, set under thick eyebrows that gave him an edgy look overall. He seemed very interested in Sherlock especially, who was more or less oblivious to his existence (or, for that case, John's as well), and had spent the past ten minutes staring at the tablecloth, seemingly sliding in and out of consciousness. John was used to this behavior, and had occupied himself with his noodles and chicken while the pair of them earned some odd, slightly concerned glances from nearby table inhabitants.

John glances at Sherlock, who nods slightly and continues his stare.

"One slice of the chocolate cake, please?" John asked pleasantly, knowing full well how that sounded, silently bracing himself.

"Ah," replied the waiter, with a poorly-concealed tone of understanding, "would that be with two plates or two spoons?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted to John and, for the first time, to the waiter, before slipping back into his trance.

"Both," John replied firmly, with a hard smile.

"Certainly," their waiter mumbled, taking their menus and sauntering off with a last glance at Sherlock.

John opened his mouth. Closed it.

"John." Sherlock spoke for the first time since they sat down, shifting his position is his chair.

"Yes?" John replied on an exhale. He knew how delicate he had to be; Sherlock could have anything on his mind**.**

"You brought your crutch with you."

"Yes, I did."

Sherlock looked at John, who leaned back slightly, because...Sherlock wasn't really _looking _at John. Sherlock was piercing him with his blue eyes, trying to see into him; dissection by sight. And John didn't know what the hell Sherlock expected to find.

He didn't even know what he _would_ find.

And _that_ is why he leaned back, his eyes guarded and his posture tense. A soldier ready for battle.

"Why?" Sherlock asked carefully, quietly; like he wasn't sure about the word, like he was tentatively trying out the best of his options.

"My leg is hurt, Sherlock."

That much was true: John had been hurt in Afghanistan and clinically diagnosed with PTSD, leading him to believe his crutch would be a permanent accessory. Both Holmes brothers disagreed with this diagnosis, and John had to admit there was substantial evidence to back their claim. Living with Sherlock, solving crimes and running _all over bloody creation_ had seemed to do the trick, but did either of them really expect it to be a final solution?  
So when John's leg suddenly started to hurt about a week previous, he had merely sighed in resignation and dug the blasted crutch out of the back of his closet.

Sherlock took his time responding.

"I fixed it, though." he said finally, even more quietly than his question. His eyes were mercifully lowered, and his lips were set into what could almost be considered a pout.

"Is this a _pride _thing for you?" John hissed, leaning forward. Sherlock's eyes snapped up, lips parted in surprise.

"No, John, I-"

"Heeere we are," their waiter drawled, walking quickly and amiably towards their table, unnecessarily balancing two plates of chocolate cake on his forearms. He sets Sherlock's down with added flourish and sets John's down much less theatrically. John registers this somewhere in the back of his mild with mild amusement, but the forefront of his mind is focused on being mad at Sherlock. He leans back slowly, glaring at Sherlock with narrowed eyes that said _this isn't over_ and relaxes his battle position. He is vaguely aware of the waiter straightening up and preparing to speak, but he is too focused on Sherlock, who seemed to be privately studying him as he would study a specimen in an experiment. John clenched his teeth, his blood beginning to boil.

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

Sherlock suddenly comes alive, startling John as he twists abruptly in his chair and turns his full attention onto the waiter, who blinked in surprise.

"Not...yet," Sherlock rumbled in response, his eyes flitting over the waiter so quickly John wasn't sure if it actually happened. The deep baritone in which he spoke was so _intimate_ John felt like he needed to cover his ears.

Was that really why he wanted to cover his ears?

With an alluring smile, Sherlock turned slowly back from the blushing waiter to pick up his fork and start eating.

"Let me know when you're ready for the check, then..." the waiter responded, somewhat breathlessly, the heat positively radiating off of him.

John sat there, his mind a blank white sheet of paper with _"what the hell" _written in black ink over and over and over.

After a second, the British male in him took over and he shook his head a fraction to wipe the incident from memory. He picked up his fork bitterly and speared the fluffy chocolate layers, bringing it to his mouth emphatically. He realized as he chewed that the action probably looked much more intimidating in his head.

* * *

By the time they get back to the room, John is too tired and too struck (what's the right adjective here? Consumed, struck or scarred?) by the almost scandalous exchange when it came time to pay between Sherlock and _Alejandro_, who's number now sat placidly in Sherlock's coat pocket, to continue the fight they were previously having. So he plopped down on his bed and sighed, while Sherlock hung his coat up in the small closet they had in their room.

"So what do you think about this case?" John asked experimentally.

Sherlock drew a long, audible breath threw his nose and raised his eyebrows in consideration, sitting up from his previous position of lying on his back.

"I am thinking currently that I need a background on all of the people taken. I need to find connections between them."

"You're thinking they're related?"

"I certainly hope so."

John thought for a moment.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You don't think this is another cab driver, do you?"

Sherlock glanced at him sideways, considering him for a moment.

Then he closed his eyes, and his whole body seemed to shrink, his outer shell flickering away until suddenly, he looked _so tired_.

"John?" he breathed.

"Yes?" John answered nervously.

"I'm so sick of people dying because I'm clever."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So if you're wondering about the timeline here, this fic would hypothetically happen somewhere between The Great Game and A Scandal in Belgravia.**

**Disclaimer: pretty sure I still have no rights over this.**

**So let's get straight to it, then!**

* * *

Chapter 3: The Effects of the Most Masculine Hug Ever  


Suddenly John was hugging Sherlock. He wasn't entirely sure how; he was dimly aware of sitting down on the bed next to Sherlock and then the overwhelming and basic desire to wrap his arms around the detective; his _friend_.

Was it really possible that Sherlock blamed himself for the cab driver murders or even the bomb blasts? Sherlock, who's life was suddenly consumed with Carl Powers and astronomy for the sake of other people, was feeling personally responsible for the people Moriarty killed. In John's mind, the two had never even connected. Moriarty was always the villain, always the antagonist, while Sherlock, the hero, would swoop in and solve crimes, and be brillaint. A complete arse, but brilliant.

"Sherlock, you don't kill people. You save people." John said firmly, not relinquishing his hold on Sherlock. The detective hesitated, and then slipped his arms around John's torso, pulling him slightly closer.

_What is happening? _John asked himself.

_You're comforting him, idiot. He's your best mate._

That he was. So John held on.

"I only save people when I have to. When I'm directly responsible. Those people wouldn't have needed saving if it weren't for my _fan_ wanting to _play_."

"If it weren't you it would be someone else, and you know it. At least you can handle it."

Silence. Then:

"You didn't have to save me and you still did." John said this quietly, determinedly not thinking about where this conversation was going.

* * *

_I saved John Watson._ This thought was reverberating around in his head, something he hated, because it was blocking other thoughts from entering and Sherlock would really care for other thoughts right at this moment.

So when one finally came around, after a second that felt like a year, Sherlock let it slip out without any contemplation. Pulling back, he looked at John, certain yet still so, so vulnerable.

"Of _course_ I had to save you, John."

John blinked, and opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again.

_Oh dear Lord, Sherlock. You've done it again. How stupid are you. How inconceivably thick can you possibly be?_

Because Sherlock knew what happens next.

_"Sherlock," _John would say, "_that's not something friends say."_

But the man uttered something considerably different.

"Thank God."

A beat of stunned silence from each of them, then a look that said everything and nothing on purpose.

And thus both men hastily decided to move on with the case, before "the staircase eats someone else," or something equally lame and daft and wonderful that made Sherlock laugh and smile at John.

One of the smiles only John was allowed to see. One of the smiles only John could create.

And they walked rather stiffly out of their room and down the hallway before coming out into the lobby, neither one of them needing to imagine conversations anymore.

Because a spark had been lit, and both of them were going to try their hardest to make sure nothing got blown up for as long as possible.

The question in the air: _What is happening here_?

* * *

"I'm beginning to think this Stairwell Kidnapper was being quite charitable in his actions." Sherlock said grumpily, waiting sourly in line in front of the reception desk.

John sighed.

"Why?"

"It's _January_, John, and they insist on playing Michael Buble's Christmas album over the speakers. He's not even _British_, for God's sake."

It was true: the crooning voice of Buble was currently unfurling from the speakers wherever in the hotel they went; but the passerby and staff seemed as numb and oblivious to it as they were to the rest of the world.

"Just because he's not British doesn't mean he can't be enjoyable," John replied archly, and relished the vexing look Sherlock gave him in response. John wasn't altogether fond of the singer, either; not because his voice was particularly bad, but because of the many girlfriends who had forced him to listen to him in the car, in the mornings and in one particularly confusing instance, every time they were having sex.

"But _American?_"

"Canadian."

"Same difference." He thought for a second. "Less annoying. Pointlessly cold."

"Alright, fine. But tell me why again we're talking to reception?"

Sherlock smirked. "If you want to know what's going on, work in the kitchens."

"I-hang on, that's from _Doctor_ _Who_!" John realized sharply, his head whipping around the stare at Sherlock, who's eyebrows were raised.

"Yes, John, you made me watch three hours of it last night, I was bound to remember something from it." Sherlock sounded impatient.

"Only because you'd never even seen it; that's a beloved part of British culture you've been missing out on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Come on, can you honestly say you didn't enjoy it?"

"The quality fluctuated greatly between episodes: it was rather tiresome."

"It's not always about the _quality_, Sherlock..."

"It was a giant green monster with a cane that absorbed people, John."

"Alright, so it was a weak episode-"

"May I help you?"

Both of them turned around to find Lindsay, the same lazy check in lady from before staring at them with a slight expression of annoyance on her face.

"Yes, sorry. I believe I may have left a jacket here earlier?" Sherlock asked in his best not-Sherlock voice, smiling politely and hopefully as she considered him, took a piece of gum out of her pocket and added it to the wad already in her mouth.

"Yeah, okay, uh, you can look around in the back in the lost and found. Just don't tell my manager I let you go back there." she intoned, her eyes glazing over again as she pointed to the door behind her.

"Thanks," Sherlock replied gratefully, coming around the desk and going into the back door, and walked over he lost and found

"You actually left something?" John asked incredulously as Sherlock triumphantly straightened back up, jacket in hand.

"I saw the lost and found through the window when we checked in. Thought it might be useful later."

"Why?"

Sherlock threw John a familiar smirk. The _oh John just you wait until you hear this I'm so clever_ smirk that drove John mad with equal parts irritation and awe.

"Because the lost and found serves both guests...and staff," he said, rather dramatically, pulling a bright red employee's vest out of the box.

"Undercover?"

Sherlock winked. "Got any plans tonight?"

John laughed. "I was gonna watch _Doctor Who_."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So at this point I'm fairly certain there will only be 6 chapters to this. Also: A component of Sherlock's "disguise" I actually borrowed from Two Two One Bravo Baker because I thought it was just so...Sherlock it had to be a fandom-wide HC. You'll see what I'm talking about if you've read 221BB (and if you haven't you should!). **

**I also probably won't post next week at all because I'm in my school's musical and we open Wednesday and run through Saturday so I probably won't get anything up until the week after next. Sorry!**

**Disclaimer: all rights go to the people they go to (not me)**

Chapter 4: Of Secret Doors and Imaginary Compliments  


John checked his watch, and picked a hair off of his jumper absentmindedly. It was 11:30 pm, and he and Sherlock were standing outside of a stairwell, each looking over his shoulder for incoming staff or guests. John looked at Sherlock, trying to see what he was thinking. He almost laughed, Sherlock looked so out of place. The bright red vest hung awkwardly and feebly on his shoulders and over his chest, the stolen polo underneath it hanging off of his body even as Sherlock posed like he was being sculpted, and his bright eyes shone through his black curly bangs like none of the other staff's did. Sherlock must have noticed John's amused stare because he lifted an eyebrow at John, slightly irritated, and John gestured to Sherlock as a whole, biting back another laugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't done," he whispered defensively, closing his eyes and tilting his head forward in concentration. He took a deep breath and suddenly abandoned all pretense of good posture, slouching forward and letting his hair fall forward, and when he opened his eyes they had a completely unfamiliar glaze to them, like they were dead to the world. He shoved his hands in his pockets, bringing his shoulders forward and casting his eyes to the floor. He looked all the world for one of the staff; indistinguishable for those who didn't know him.

"That's...amazing," John breathed, and then shook his head to clear it before continuing, "but what will it prove?"

"If I'm taken, then it means the kidnapper doesn't know the staff personally. He's just taking anyone with a red vest on. If he doesn't take me, it means one of two things: he knows I'm not staff, or...?" Sherlock trailed off, giving John a chance to answer his open-ended question.

"Or...there is no kidnapper?" John supplemented, feeling unsure.

A smile broke out on Sherlock's face; quick, but genuine. "Good, John."

Then Sherlock nodded, and John leaned casually against the wall beside the door as Sherlock pushed open the door, back in his zombie-like state.

There was nothing for a moment, just John's bated breath and the last resounding sound waves left over from the door closing shut.

"John."

John heard his name, even muffled by the door. He sighed, recognizing Sherlock's tone of voice immediately. It was John's time to stand in for the skull that was now gathering dust on the mantle in 221B, so he squared his shoulders and sucked in a breath, readying himself for Sherlock's nonsensical ramblings.

When he pushed the door open, he found Sherlock paused mid-step between two different stairs, the small beam of light from his pocket torch directed at the opposite wall. John looked at it. He found nothing special about it, and briefly entertained himself by imagining the conversation that would ensue if he told Sherlock that.

_"John, you have to do more than _see_!"_

_"Alright, so tell me what's wrong with the wall, then!"_

_Cue the look._

_"From the displacement of the dust it's evident that there was a murder here 4 days ago but I can also tell from the temperature of the railing that no one has been here in 6 days..."_

_"That's amazing!"_

And there John stood, picturing himself complimenting his flat mate for no real reason. It faintly occurred to him that perhaps if Sherlock knew this, he would not be looking at John with that impatient expression he was currently treating him to.

"John?" he drawled, rolling his eyes and wiggling the beam of light to gesture at where John's attention should be focused.

"Right," John said, with something of a jolt. He peered across at the wall, trying to _observe_, and noticed, to his surprise, an indention in the drab cement blocks. Sherlock moved the torch for him, casting light on actual hinges at the edge of the indention, as if-

"Is there a door?" John blurted out incredulously, unthinkingly. He realized how that sounded shortly after and silently berated himself for sounding so stupid, but to his surprise, Sherlock's face broke out in one of his John smiles.

"My thoughts exactly," he said, still with an impressed air of pleasant surprise.

The pair of them quickly descended down the staircase (well, John limped) and Sherlock moved immediately right up to the wall/door, pressing his palms flat on the surface and pushing. With a heavy grown, the door gave way and swung open, revealing a small cutout with space enough for one or two people in front of another door, one that seemed to be locked. John tried the door handle just to exhaust his options, but the effort was futile. Sherlock strolled up and rapped smartly on the door, listening closely as he held up a hand to ensure John's silence.

"Stairwell," he announced, straightening up and turning to his partner.

"Where does it go?" John wondered aloud.

"I have an idea," Sherlock replied proudly. Whirling around melodramatically, he reached his hands up to his stolen polo collar as if he intended to flip it up, but stopped short as he realized he wasn't actually wearing his coat.

"Ah-disguise," he muttered to himself, and threw a warning glare to John, who had covered his mouth with his hands in an attempted show at sensitivity. He had to let the door close behind Sherlock before he could burst out laughing.

* * *

Not five minutes later, Sherlock was walking a considerable pace in front of John, heading for the next stairwell. He needed to go up, and the one they were just in only went down from the floor they were on.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock heard John call from behind him, and Sherlock noticed with a slight flush that he still had a trace of amusement in his voice.

"To the stairwell. We need to go up." Sherlock replied briskly, hoping John wasn't about to say what he thought he was.

_"Sherlock, I'm not climbing those stairs."_

"Sherlock, I'm not climbing those stairs."

Damn.

"What do you suggest instead, then?" Sherlock snapped, even as his voice broke on the last work. Glaring at John to cover up the panic slowly rising up in his gut, he flinched inwardly at the faint note of hysteria that had managed to worm its way into his voice.

John quirked an eyebrow.

"We'll take the elevator, Sherlock." John replied slowly, looking sidelong at Sherlock suspiciously.

Cold fear suddenly gripped Sherlock's lungs, making every breath in painful as he followed John to the nearest elevator. John pushed the up button and they waited in silence, Sherlock staring unflinchingly at the metal doors and John glancing at him, unsure of what exactly had gotten into him.

Soon there was a faint _ding _and the doors slowly opened to reveal the small square of space meant to contain both of them. John stepped briskly inside. Sherlock followed unconsciously, staring desperately at John's relaxed and tired face to try and force himself to calm down, to cross from one patch of dingy carpet to the other. There was nothing different about that other square of carpet, Sherlock told himself. Nothing at all.

_Yes there is, _sounded a nasty voice in the back of his mind.

_You know what the difference is._

_Yes_, Sherlock told himself firmly. _Yes, there is a difference. One_ _has John on it and one does not. On which patch of carpet would you rather be on?_

Sherlock set his mouth into a hard line.

And he stepped into the left, towards a confused and worried John. Towards a John that wore terrible jumpers-terrible and _soft_ jumpers-_terribly soft jumpers-_and towards a John that thought he was brilliant.

_A hero._

So yes, Sherlock stepped towards John and for a moment he thought he might just remember how to breathe again.

But then the doors closed, with another pathetic _ding_, and Sherlock forgot.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So enjoy this silliness!  
**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own this stuff!**

Chapter 5- Sherlock and His Doctor  


Sherlock's distress was evident from the moment the elevator doors closed. John heard a little moan behind him, and turned, startled, to find Sherlock's jaw set into a hard square, lips pressed together so firmly their usually pink rosy color had been drained out by the intense pressure. His eyes, however, sat in a crazy stare at the opposing wall, the piercing silver shining through the hard mask of his expression.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John said, still taken aback by the rapid change in Sherlock's demeanor.

"Just shut _up,_ John," Sherlock hissed, his eyes snapping shut as the elevator jolted upwards.

John, at this point, was a bit unsure of what to do. Previous experience with Sherlock told him to just leave it alone, to ride upwards in silence and trust that Sherlock would undoubtedly be fine. But ever since The Pool Incident, as the event with Moriarty remained titled in John's mind, there had been a shift in their relationship. They had obviously become closer to each other, and not just through shared experience or dual understanding. They had become physically closer, _literally_ closer, as evident from leaving little to no room between them in taxi cabs or little purposeful brushing of skin on skin as if to say _I'm still here_.

So with this in mind, John made his way over to Sherlock until he was about a foot in front of him.

"Sherlock," John said firmly, trying to make the detective focus on him.

Sherlock drew in a breath and slowly opened his eyes, and with a sense of relief John noticed they were less wild than before.

"I'm here...you're fine," John said awkwardly, but decisively, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock.

Something reminiscent of relaxation settled over Sherlock's features, and for a moment things were fine, but then the elevator stopped moving.

In reality it wasn't nearly as smooth as it just _stopping_-more like it groaned and stuttered and shuddered to a stop, and the already dim lights flickered and shut off for a moment before reluctantly coming back on. More or less, Sherlock and John both knew they were trapped in the goddamn elevator.

John cursed under his breath and tore his attention away from Sherlock, who had gone rigid, eyes frozen over with sheer and utter panic.

"We're stuck," John said unhelpfully, bowing his head and sighing, running a hand through his short sandy hair.

But Sherlock was too deep in his...whatever the hell was wrong with him to even comment on the totally obvious nature of John's comment. His fingers splayed away his palms and his arms jutted out at his side, he sucked in his breath in short inhalations and dropped to his knees, shutting his eyes and letting out a low whine.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed in alarm, automatically casting his crutch aside to bend down to Sherlock, instinctively reaching his hand up to cup Sherlock's face with his hands. Sherlock's eyes flew open in response, and John jerked his hands away with a muttered "sorry". But Sherlock whimpered again, and cowered towards John's chest.

"Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong," John asked, seriously worried now as to why the hell he was _petting_ his flat mate's head as he moaned into John's shoulder.

Sherlock suddenly froze, and pulled back sharply.

"I'm-" Sherlock began, but he seemed to choke on the next word.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm-"

"Show me where you're hurt, Sherlock-"

"-claustrophobic."

Silence.

"Oh," John said, momentarily dumbfounded. "Right, um..."

"It's not real," Sherlock hissed, grasping his curls in his fists. "It's in my _mind_ and it shouldn't be, there's no _excuse_, it's in my _mind_!"

"That's okay, Sherlock." John said gently, beginning to understand Sherlock's terror. "It's...okay not to be in control of everything. Good, even."

"No-no it isn't-I didn't get shot, my leg isn't broken. I'm handicapped by my greatest weapon-shot by my own gun." he shouted out a bitter laugh, his eyes darting from the corners of the small elevator. "I know the walls will stay where they are; I know they're not pressing in on me and I know the floor isn't going to swallow me until I'm trapped between the layers of dingy carpet and freezing metal and-" Sherlock gasped as he ran out of hair and shrunk back, cowering as low as he could.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Cold-walls-guns and legs and _John_-" Sherlock was muttering incoherently now, his eyes squeezed shut and his hair fisted in his hands.

"Jesus," John breathed, frowning as he considered how to best deal with his flatmate at the moment. He sat briefly, listening to Sherlock's ramblings, and thought he ought to start with trying to get him to speak in complete sentences again.

"Sherlock,' John tried again, "I'm going to help you."

Sherlock glanced up at him, momentarily silent.

"How?" he whispered, eyes wide with uncertainty and fear...and...encouragement?

Roused by this, John did the first thing he could think of and hugged Sherlock.

For the second time. In 24 hours. What was happening?

_"Dear God, John, it's just a hug. Do calm down._"

He heard Sherlock's voice in his head and even as he imagined Sherlock speaking those words he knew they were wrong.

Because Sherlock was hugging him back and John could feel his shaking torso against his own, and as John held his detective in his arms he could actually feel Sherlock's shakes subside and God, that was _wonderful_.

"Am I helping?" John whispered.

Sherlock made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and pulled back every so slightly to look into John's eyes, a gesture John steadily returned.

"You're the only thing that ever helps, John."

And then John kissed him.

Sherlock almost forgot how to breathe, but for an entirely different reason than his infuriating claustrophobia. The reason being, of course, that _John Watson was kissing him_. Shakily, nervously, but kissing him all the same.

He must have been entirely too still with shock, for John suddenly pulled back, eyes wide with mortification.

"_Christ_, Sherlock, that probably didn't help at all...I thought...I'm so sorry-"

"_Shut up,_" Sherlock growled, and lunged forward, eager to make up for their failed first kiss.

Their lips connected slightly messily and harshly at first, but both of them soon accommodated for that and Sherlock found that John's lips actually fit quite well with his own. They were slightly smaller, and thinner, and slid easily in between Sherlock's. Despite the ferocity of the initial attack, the kiss was a relatively gentle one. Tongues slid slowly together in accordance with the other, and Sherlock's arm tightened on John's waist. Sherlock actually found this kiss to be both gentle and earth-shattering, perhaps due to the orchestra of emotion that had erupted in his chest. His lungs seemed to constrict and he vaguely noted he had never loved the lack of oxygen so much. Heat rose to his face until the blood in his cheeks boiled and spilled over, inexplicably melting away as John deepened the kiss, changing their position so he was leaning against Sherlock's front.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between pleasure and, oddly, the noise someone makes when they're hesitantly trying to voice an opinion. John noted this and pulled back, sitting down on his heels.

Sherlock, for a moment, simply didn't speak in favor just staring at John. His hair was slightly mussed in the front, and his eyes were wide, glazed over with lust, but also wide with amazement and husked with determination. His lips red and swollen from kissing and his clothes were rumpled where Sherlock had grabbed them.

Stopping for a moment to catch his breath before he started saying whatever he was planning on saying, Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling and almost had a heart attack because _why the hell was the ceiling so close to me and my space and my John-_

-oh.

Convenient?

"John," Sherlock began, unable to keep the quiver out of his voice. John noticed and shuffled forward to grasp Sherlock's hands in his own.

Hypothesis confirmed.

"That was..."

"Yeah," John breathed, finishing Sherlock's sentence for him. The detective took a deep breath and continued.

"Where every other remedy has previously failed, it seems like physical-and emotional-intimacy has succeeded in...reducing my claustrophobia." Sherlock whispered the last word.

John blinked, but nodded. He had suspected that. Good.

"What time is it now?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at his watch. "11:58. I reckon we've got five and a half hours before someone comes and gets us." Then John's eyes widened in realization.

"Oh," he breathed.

"Yes."

"You mean-"

"I do."

"For five and half hours?"

"I'd encourage you to try and be creative." Sherlock was trying to be as normal as possible so John couldn't tell how fast his heart was beating at the moment.

John blinked again. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"You're straight."

John laughed, and Sherlock quirked a brow.

"Snogging the hell out of my flatmate wasn't very heterosexual of me, and I just signed up to do it for five and a half more hours. Let's do labels later, yeah?"

Sherlock breathed out, closing his eyes to the suffocating walls around him.

"Yeah."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: AH THIS IS SO LATE! I'm a terrible person. And this chapter is short, too. Sorry. Ugh. The next one will be longer, because it's mainly John and Sherlock talking about "stuff".  
**

**I know I said this would be the last chapter, but...it's actually probably (definitely) gonna wind up being one more after this.  
**

**Disclaimer: not mine.**

Chapter 6: Chemical Reactions of The Heart  


"Tell me everything about you."

"This is quite different from kissing, John."

"Sherlock, you can't expect me to pull an all nighter snogging you. I'm not 23 anymore."

"You could _try_."

John sighed. He knew Sherlock was only being so bitter and demanding to mask his steady panic, just beneath his detached veneer. His body was already betraying him; as John's fingers rested on Sherlock's wrist he could feel the heavy drumming of Sherlock's heart and see the slight quiver of his hands, which were folded together on Sherlock's stomach as he lay with his head in John's lap.

"This seems to be working, though," John replied softly, just a hint of pride in his voice. He moved his finger's from Sherlock's thrumming pulse to his curls that were swept hap-haphazardly across his alabaster forehead. Amazingly, the lights in the elevator remained on, but only just so as to illuminate Sherlock's skin as it cast John's face into shadow.

John found he quite liked the lighting.

Sherlock did not.

"It is...somewhat," Sherlock admitting, returning John's thoughts to his previous observation.

"You just need a distraction," John said decidedly.

"Hence our original plan. Do keep up, John."

John rolled his eyes. "What you hate about having claustrophobia-if I'm understanding you-is the loss of reason that comes with it. So...let's return to facts and logic, then. Tell me about yourself."

Sherlock let out a short laugh, closing his eyes as a grim smile settled on his cupid bow lips.

"Nothing about me is logical, John."

This confused John. "But...isn't that kind of the whole premise of your being?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and shot John a _look_.

"Fine...then...let's talk about...what happens when we get home."

"Were you planning to have an elevator installed in our flat?"

"_Sherlock."_

"Fine. Let's talk, if you insist we must."

"I do."

"Then lead the way, soldier." Sherlock drawled, closing his eyes. John took a breath, trying for a moment to wrap his head around everything that just happened. In truth, reflecting on the past ten minutes was kind of staggering. John wasn't at all sure what he even wanted to happen, much less what he wanted to say. He decided to try and gauge Sherlock's thought process, which, he later would realize, is never a very wise idea.

"Where do you want..._this_...to go?" he tried.

"Up."

"_Sherlock!" _

"This isn't helping," Sherlock snapped, sitting up suddenly and sucking in a breath.

"Why not?"

"Because this is the opposite of calming me down, John! I need things that make sense, and this-" Sherlock gestured wildly between himself and John- "doesn't make sense at all!"

Sherlock cringed as John's face fell.

Words. Words were dull and unreliable, they had completely twisted themselves around as they left his mouth.

"So this doesn't make sense to you," John was saying, looking pointedly at the floor.

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock began, frustrated, trying to ignore the panic beginning to creep up from his stomach. Why weren't words working? Why weren't the laws of physics working? How could he see the dusty swirls of oxygen being sucked out through the crack in the elevator door-

"So tell me what you mean, then." John said, bringing Sherlock momentarily out of his panic attack. The detective paused, and so did the cold trickles of fear in his bloodstream. They stood still, waiting, in his veins as Sherlock fought to think of why John made absolutely zero sense.

"Affection," he began carefully, "is a chemical reaction in the brain. A reaction remarkably similar to that of addiction, actually, so seeing as I'm inclined towards _that_, the terrifyingly strong affections I have towards you make a bit of twisted sense. Anyway, the reactions happen entirely in the mind, not in the heart. I have never understood the long-standing tradition of the _heart_ being the symbol for love and affection until now...until _you_, that is. Because, when it should be an impossibility, it is not my brain that opens itself up and stutters when I see you, it seems instead to be the vital organ located in my chest." Sherlock paused again, swallowing.

John, meanwhile, was still, listening with a revered caution to Sherlock's slow and deliberate speech. He saw the man take a breath and couldn't help but falter a little at what he had to say next.

"Indeed, it seems that, according to my heart, pumping blood to my body comes secondary to surrendering itself unto you."

Sherlock twisted around as he said this, so he was staring into John's warm blue eyes.

"And that, John, doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense, you brilliant _git_," John breathed, suddenly feeling much more capable of a five-hour snog session.

**1:35 am**

"Tell me about your brother."

"No."

**2:49 am**

"How...how are you feeling?"

"You have a knack for choosing the most inopportune moments to ask me things, John."

"Oh, come here, you tosser."

**3:15 am**

"Holy _shit_."

"Agreed."

"I've never...done that. Before."

"Well, neither have I."

**4:28 am**

"John."

"mmmm."

"Wake up."

"m'up.'

"Tell me about your sister."

"Ah, no."

**5:00 am**

_"Have yourself..."_

Sherlock stirred.

_"A merry...little Christmas..."_

Dear god.

_"Let your heart be light...from now on..."_

"John."

"Mmf?"

_"our troubles..."_

"From now on we're boycotting anything Canadian."

_"will be out of siiiight..."_

John's eyes opened, blinking in slight confusion at the sudden presence of Michael Buble.

_Ding!_

"Sherlock?" John asked, getting to his feet.

"We're _moving_!" Sherlock yelped, watching the numbers on the screen drop from 14 to 12 then 11...10...9..._ding_!

The doors opened.

Sherlock let out a cry of relief and launched himself out of the elevator, past the poor exhausted business man holding a cold cup of coffee and a weathered briefcase that had pressed the down button. John stepped out, blinking again in the light of the hallway. He nodded to the man, who looked slightly bemused as he nodded back.

Neither John nor the business man noticed John's cane abandoned in the elevator as the doors closed shut once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So I decided to revisit them in a short little epilogue instead-I think it's best that way. I hope you've liked this little story! May Johnlock always be with you ;)**

_Epilogue_

"I have never been this tired." John was moaning, climbing into bed and rubbing his hands over his face.

"Didn't you once backpack through the Afghan desert with a machine gun slung over your shoulder?" Sherlock asked, already under the covers and observing John with an amused glint in his eye.

"Ah, something like that."

They both laughed, and Sherlock closed his eyes and reveled in the momentary peace. "I empathize with you."

"Well, you bloody better!"

Sherlock laughed, then turned sober. "This is the hardest thing I've ever done."

John blinked at him, before taking his hand gently. "You're doing wonderfully, Sherlock."

"I've never done _anything_ like this before," he replied, looking down at their joined hands, wedding rings glistening on each of their ring fingers.

"I haven't either," John reasoned, intertwining their fingers and matching Sherlock's gaze.

"You're better at it," Sherlock whispered, looking at John fearfully.

John laughed. "I'm _better_ than you at something?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Shut up."

"I'm declaring a national holiday. On this day, Sherlock Holmes admitted that I, John Watson—"

"_Stop!_"

"Fine," John giggled, patting Sherlock's shoulder a bit awkwardly, but still affectionate.

There was a moment of silence before John spoke again.

"You're wrong, anyhow. I'm not better at this at all."

Sherlock groaned. "Ugh, _wrong_. That's even worse."

John smiled. "You love it though, don't you?"

Sherlock looked towards the door, and then to the window. He saw past the glass and into the dark London night, where people were walking from pubs and to pubs and from work and to dinner. Broken hearts and loving hearts and lonely hearts and impassive hearts—all the same and all oblivious to the most exciting thing that's ever happened (_ever_) residing just in a lowly bedroom of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock smiled in return, looking at something John couldn't really see.

"I absolutely love being a father."

John's smile widened into a grin, leaning over to kiss Sherlock gently. As soon as their lips touch, they heard the piercing wail of three-month-old Hamish from the other side of the room.

"Your turn," John said immediately, looking wearily at the crib.

Sherlock sighed lovingly, and kissed John again. "Gladly," he said, and rose to tend to his and John's son, the son he never imagined he'd have.

He never thought he'd owe so much to a malfunctioning elevator.


End file.
